


saunter vaguely upwards

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Attraction, Banter, Force-Sensitive Finn, Knight of Ren Finn, M/M, Smuggler Ben Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8869675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Ren turned in time to see Solo brush his hand across his scalp, mussing the waves of hair that fell almost to his shoulder. “You expect me to believe that?”“I expect you to know it,” he replied, tapping at his temple. Then, he held his hands out in supplication. “Sometimes, a smuggler’s a smuggler.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Desparadina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desparadina/gifts).



“You don’t have to worry,” Ren said, waving off the white-clad stormtroopers doing their level best despite great odds to menace a man who clearly wasn’t having it. If Ren had it in him, he would have felt embarrassed for them. As it was, he showed them what little mercy he could by drawing the prisoner’s scathing attention away from them. “I won’t hurt you.” Turning toward the ’troopers, he nodded. “Can I have the room?”

They shuffled out of the room immediately, _sir, yes, sirs_ echoing in their mouths. Ren fought the urge to grimace on their behalves as he surreptitiously used the Force to cut the feeds of the handful of camdroids perched in the corners of the room, disentangling the wires that kept them running until run they no longer could.

“Is that why you’ve got me in a holding cell?” the prisoner asked, drawing his attention back to where it belonged.

“I could have you on a rack if that’s where I wanted you.” He tapped the force field separating him from the prisoner with the tip of his gloved hand. It hissed and sizzled and sparked and Ren felt it all the way up his arm, a sharp, centering pain that quickly abated to a dull throb. “This is much nicer, don’t you think?”

“You and I have very different definitions of nice.”

Ren smirked. Not that the prisoner could see it through the chromium of his mask, but he would hear it in the tone of his voice when he spoke. No amount of distortion could cover that. Not that Ren would have wanted it to. “Try that on someone who hasn’t seen that scrapheap my people hauled in along with you.”

The prisoner shrugged, apparently unconcerned by Ren’s slight against his ship and his sensibilities. But only apparently. Ren felt the anger that arced, sharp, off the prisoner, discharging itself uselessly into the Force. So much power here. If only he would harness it. _What a waste_. Force users weren’t exactly thick on the ground. Every one of them was precious, unique, worth honing into something greater than they were. “One man’s scrapheap…” the prisoner said.

“You’re one to talk.” Without moving, Ren called on the Force, yanked a chair from the far side of the room without so much as lifting a hand. It screeched and clattered across the floor and Ren dropped into it and relaxed back, crossing his legs. Fear, genuine fear, spiked in the prisoner—as Ren had hoped it would. If you were a Force user, don’t let anyone know when you were using the Force. So many of his compatriots waved their hands around when they drew on their skills. It gave so much away. A trick he’d learned early on: never give away what you were planning to do to the enemy and never, ever give away what you were planning to do to your allies.

The prisoner was neither thing to Ren yet, but he supposed that precept held true for him, too.

His fellow Knights still hadn’t learned this about him. Hux hadn’t learned yet either. Phasma— _Phasma had learned_ , he thought, tapping at one of the bars of chromium that served as knuckle guards, but it hadn’t gone well for her.

“What’s your name?” the prisoner asked, striding across the floor, a little uneasy. People often were when Ren allowed himself to sit while they remained standing.

Ren blinked and frowned. “FN,” he replied for something to say. Not many people asked for more than his title. And that had always been good enough for him.

“Finn?” The prisoner nodded, processing this information. Ren didn’t correct him. His name—or lack of one—didn’t matter anyway. Skeptical, the prisoner said, “Good to meet you.”

Ren tilted his head. “I wish I could say the same.”

The prisoner grinned, seemingly happy with Ren’s response, and it was strangely compelling, held a draw all its own that Ren furiously, fearlessly beat down and locked away in the back of his mind where it couldn’t interfere. There was no room in Ren’s life for _compelling_. There was no room in his life for smugglers either, but he couldn’t cut away every inconvenience, he supposed.

And this man was sure to be an inconvenience. He’d already wasted more of Ren’s time than most people were willing to risk.

“You’re a lot funnier,” the prisoner said, “than I thought you would be. Most of you—aren’t.”

 _What the hell is wrong with you?_ “I get that a lot,” he replied instead, deadpan, though the voice modulators already did a lot in that respect already. Dropping his foot to the floor and leaning forward, he laced his fingers together. The prisoner couldn’t see it, but Ren’s eyes were intent on his face, searching. “You’ve tangled with Firstie patrols before, then?”

The prisoner shook his head and laughed, a huff of expelled air that suggested disbelief and despondency and reluctant amusement. It shouldn’t have looked as good as it did, but Ren didn’t get this far by denying the truth. Instead, he released it.

 _Go ahead_ , Ren thought. _Be amused. Underestimate me_.

“Do they like it when you call them ‘Firsties’?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged. That was a lie. He _did_ know. What he said next was the truth though. “Frankly, I don’t much care either. You want to answer my question?”

“Not particularly.”

Ren smiled and smiled all the bigger for knowing the prisoner had no idea he was doing it. The prisoner. _Playtime’s over_. “Then maybe you can tell me why your uncle or your mother never taught you how to shield your thoughts properly.”

The change was immediate—and violent—and Ren didn’t allow himself to revel in the fear, that genuine fear again, so good, nor in the sheer amount of restraint it took the prisoner—Ben Solo, Ren could allow himself to think of him that way now—to not launch himself at the force field. To do something, even if it was self-destructive and thoroughly, thoroughly pointless.

“And did you really believe I wouldn’t recognize the _Mirrorbright_ with nothing more than a hull adjustment, a few aftermarket additions, and a fresh coat of paint to disguise it? Perhaps your father should have taught you something about smuggling, too.”

“My father never was very good at it,” Solo answered, his voice betraying him, tense despite his best efforts, tight. There was no love lost between father and son and it didn’t take the Force to see it. What a pity. Ren imagined it would have been quite nice to have a father.

“No, he made a much better war hero, didn’t he?” Ren sucked at his lip, thoughtful, the sound of it unpleasant for Solo to hear probably, taking on a grainy, scratchy quality once it got through the voice modulation unit in his helmet. “You take after him.”

“I’m not a war hero.”

“No, but you’re a terrible smuggler,” Ren replied. “You just want to be a war hero.”

Pain lanced through Solo, a visceral anguish that would have left Ren reeling if he didn’t already know how to handle such onslaughts. Regardless of that fact, he still had trouble separating himself from it. Here he was, all but telling Solo not to underestimate him, and he’d made the very same mistake in return. Foolish of him.

He would not make it again. And he would not _feel_ anything approaching empathy for Solo. No, he couldn’t. He _didn’t_. There was nothing in their backgrounds—

_Not FN-2187 trying so very hard to be like the other people in his unit._

_Not Eight-Seven failing so very hard to be like any of the stormtroopers around him at all._

_Not Ren hating where he’d ended up and hating the people who surrounded him and being unable to do anything about either of those things once Phasma, then Snoke, figured out what made him different._

—that supported the need for it. Empathy got you killed just as surely as incompetence, anger, and impatience could. It wasn’t Ren’s fault that Solo had issues. And so, Ren ignored them. He tried to anyway.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing in disputed space, Solo?”

“Why don’t _you_ tell _me_ what you’re doing in disputed space?” Solo tilted his head and turned, pacing across the floor. “If I’m Resistance and I’m not supposed to be here, then you shouldn’t be here either. And you don’t have plausible deniability.” He smirked, though the effort was a thin one at best, like he was just going through the motions of mouthing off, unable to commit fully to the act now. “It’s hard to disguise a Star Destroyer.”

Ren grinned. “You’re very much mistaken on that score,” he replied, leaving Solo to decide just which part he was mistaken about. Best not to make it too easy for him after all. And at the very least, he was pleased to know just how out of date Solo’s information was. Getting to his feet, Ren dusted at his robes. “Have a nice evening,” he said, inclining his head, as cordial as he could bring himself to be. “It’s clear we’re getting nowhere here.”

Solo frowned, searching Ren’s mask for a sign it wouldn’t be able to give. Staying still, allowing the scrutiny, Ren waited for a sign that Solo had finally given up. When Solo didn’t and just kept peering at Ren, Ren shrugged, tugging at his gloves. “Like what you see?” he asked, dry, startling Solo from whatever thoughts had caused him to stare so brazenly.

“Sure,” he said, after an awkward pause, “the Dark Lord of the Sith look really works for you.”

Ren rolled his eyes, but chose not to correct him. Besides, he suspected that was exactly what Solo wanted him to do. “Good bye, Solo.”

Counting, he took slow, measured steps toward the door.

“Wait,” Solo said, sounding aggrieved. With a sigh, he added, “I didn’t come here for the Resistance.”

Ren turned in time to see Solo brush his hand across his scalp, mussing the waves of hair that fell almost to his shoulder. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to know it,” he replied, tapping at his temple. Then, he held his hands out in supplication. “Sometimes, a smuggler’s a smuggler.”

Narrowing his eyes, Ren crossed his arms. It could be a trick. It probably was a trick. But it was true, too: the worst sort of trick Ren could imagine. He couldn’t sense any deception from Solo on this score in any case. Uneasiness trickled, cold, down his spine. It gave him the excuse he didn’t want that would allow him to do an incredibly, incredibly unwise thing.

 _You can’t do this_.

 _You’re the Master of the Knights of Ren. You can_ do _what you want_.

_He’s done nothing wrong. This time._

“I hope I never have the misfortune of seeing you again, Ben Solo,” Ren said, disengaging the force field and steeling himself for the explanation he’ll soon owe to just about everyone under and above his command. Reaching out with the Force, he wrenched Solo’s arm up. Just in case he got any ideas.

“Oh,” Solo said, airy, a smile—a real smile—on his face, crooked and somehow charming despite itself. “I get the feeling you will.” He leaned in close. Whatever suavity he hoped to impart was sadly lacking in evidence. Not that that stopped Ren from feeling a flutter of attraction for him anyway. That, he quashed quickly enough. Complications of that sort… no. _No_. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

 _Yes, it would_. “Come with me.”

Solo’s face blanked. “What?”

“The First Order can be reasonable,” he said, willing the smuggler to understand, “to those who are truthful with us.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do you want me to be?”

“No, but—”

“Then don’t question me.” Ren Force-shoved him toward the door. “Move. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Wait,” Solo replied, pushing against the power Ren was exerting. That was… somewhat impressive. Less impressive, though, than it should have been given his heritage. Ren could only imagine what it was like to have access to General Organa and Master Skywalker’s talents—and then end up a smuggler anyway.

“What?” Ren asked, exasperated, hands on his waist.

“You could come with me.” Solo’s eyes were wide, earnest. And for a moment, Ren let himself imagine what that might be like. What it would be like to be free of his backstabbing Knights, of Snoke’s greasy instructions, of the stormtrooper corps marching around every base and ship he’d ever visited, people who never had the choice about whether they’d serve or not and doing it anyway.

Getting away from that would be…

“Go,” Ren said, overwhelming what little power Solo had gathered against him, making him stumble toward the door.

“Sir!” the stormtroopers standing outside said, sharp and crisp, snapping to attention as Ren crossed the threshold into the hallway.

“I’m releasing the prisoner. Inform General Hux that he might reconsider harassing every low-life criminal he comes across in this sector. I have more important work to do than confirm he’s picking up nobodies just trying to scratch out a living.”

They exchanged looks and the braver of the two asked, “Sir?”

Ren flapped his hand at them. “Respectfully, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _Yes, sir_ , Ren thought, regretful.

The walk to the hangar felt excruciatingly long, but none of the stormtroopers who lined the halls stopped Ren from leading Solo to his ship. And much to Ren’s relief, Solo gave nothing away, going so far as to completely cut the sarcasm even though it was probably one of the harder things he’d ever had to do.

Though Ren didn’t allow himself to pry, he wondered just how difficult this was for Solo.

They reached Solo’s ship and Ren shook his head. Solo really needed to do something about it to make it less recognizable. He would’ve gotten lucky with anyone else on this ship admittedly, but Ren made it his business to know every obscure detail he could pick up on his enemies. Presumably, the same could be said of anyone. Solo should have thought of that.

“I won’t forget this,” Solo said, sounding far more cowed than Ren would have thought. _An act_ , Ren thought, though he got the message anyway.

“I would suggest you do just that,” Ren replied. He dredged up the name of Solo’s false identity, told to him earlier by the stormtrooper who’d briefed him. “Next time, stay out of our way, Mr. Alesx. It really does make everything much easier on everyone.”

Solo stared at him, eyes searching again for something Ren would not give to him. He bit his lip and it was so very obvious that he wanted to say something.

Ren shook his head minutely. _Get on your Force-damned ship already_.

Then, Solo nodded and Ren’s heart had the nerve to squeeze with regret. “Okay,” Solo said, closing a door that should never have been opened.

When Ren was satisfied that Solo really was leaving, he turned away and he didn’t let himself look back. Every inch of him clamored for him to take this opportunity, say to hell with it and throw his lot in with Solo and see where it took him. _Nowhere good_ , he thought, but he was already nowhere good. It wouldn’t have made that much of a change even if it _was_ bad.

But though regret had nestled itself into his stomach, a stone growing larger and heavier by the moment, he didn’t allow himself the luxury of wallowing in it. He didn’t let himself hope Solo was right about them seeing one another again.

There was still too much left to do.

And no room in that for a man like Ben Solo.

Not even if he asked. Not even if Ren wanted to say yes.


End file.
